


Inks and Asphodels

by Boudii



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Am I a slut for cliches??, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, M/M, Murder, Rise to Power, Slow Burn, Uhhhh you betcha
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:55:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24107839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boudii/pseuds/Boudii
Summary: Mr Kapelput was surprisingly murderous for a florist. That minor observation certainly wasn't something Ed planned to criticise him on, oh no, if anything it made the man all the moreintriguing.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 5
Kudos: 42





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A quick prologue to set the scene for the rest of the fic, hope y'all enjoy!

Edward supposed it was corruption that had attracted him to the Gotham in the first place. Decades old intrigue woven into the fabric of its grimy streets; the bricks of its abandoned buildings held together by echoes of long forgotten mysteries. He longed to poke through every nook and cranny, to tear the city down to its seams and find all the answers buried beneath cement for so many years. Gotham pulsed with life, and with the wicked way of life it offered, crime, and with that came the bizarre and the criminal crawling out of every corner to indulge in a self-inflicted kind of chaos. It was the perfect place to start anew, to solidify the newborn Gothamite Edward Nygma from the remains of Edward Nashton.

Clutching a briefcase sparsely packed and train ticket, Edward Nashton had stepped over the strip of earth where he’d buried his father, shoved the empty bottle of concentrated aconite into his pocket and walked through the doorframe of his childhood home for the final time. The cloudless sky had been a light blue, Ed recalled years later, the indifferent air 59°F, precipitation 73% and humidity approximately 24%.

He decided to grab an umbrella. No other thoughts were allowed to cross his mind.

A gaping emptiness had threatened to swallow him whole. The void of his father’s unseeing eyes, the place where he assumed his heart should've been beating. Unfeeling, Ed hadn’t looked back. Metropolis had been the cruellest sort of utopia. Its polished picket fences apathetic to the sour smell of cheap beer perforating his childhood room, pristine skyscrapers unable to cover bruises blooming under young flesh. Not that he could ever blame the city, his thought was singed with bitterness, Metropolis was perfect and perfection required you to forget the lost and the hurt.

To Edward, it’d never been a question of if he was going to leave, but merely a matter of when. Edward Nashton had died the second he stepped onto the platform of Gotham Central Station. A man pushed passed him as he slipped off the train, waving a half-lit cigarette in his face. Ed wrinkled his nose at the acrid smell, pulling his sleeve to cover his mouth. A filthy habit really, one he never could understand, surely, they’d have heard of the countless studies proving the long-term effects of smoking on a person’s health. Why poison your body for a moments release?

However, before Ed could’ve said anything or gotten a better look at the man, he was buried in the swarm of people who swept through the station’s small entrances. Faces faded into a vague dusk of blurred grey, nearby, a group of old women yelled good-byes at the opposing train, in voices drowned under the shriek of its whistle. A grimace pulled at his lips as his grip on his baggage tightened, Ed pushed against the crowd and tried to swallow the tight breath caught in his throat. He struggled to breathe between the heat of bodies heaving past him, his senses assaulted by the heady, polluted air and indistinguishable voices drowning his thoughts in deafening murmur.

Ed felt as though he were leaning over an ocean, peering at the seabed beneath his feet, toiling about the atoms shifting into the molecules of a thousand new people.  
He shoved through the packed station, quashing the rolling anxiety in his guts, trying fruitlessly to fold his lanky body in on itself. He’d always hated crowds; it was impossible to hear his thoughts over neurons sinking under all that sensory information. Intellect was a barrier and a lifeline, Ed knew his mind was exceptional and the greatest shield he had at his disposal, it was only logical to dislike any major distraction that separated him from his source of strength.  
Traitorous childhood memories challenged him from the back of his mind. Assembly, school yards, all the times he’d purposefully sat as far away from the other kids as allowed, reciting riddles in his head to distract from the overwhelming sense of smallness filling his brain with fog. Their flickering eyes, his tilted head, warm tears building-  
No. _No._

That was Nashton, he was Nygma. Riddles weren’t needed for comfort, they were a source of power, a demonstration of his own intellectual superiority. He’s smarter than 98% of the population, he’s better than all these people, he’s-

A familiar figure in green, enriched beside swarms of grey anonymity, flashed him a predatory smile from the corner of his eye. Doubt seeped through his blood, and knocked down the pedestal of superiority he’d momentarily built himself on, as Ed couldn’t help but wonder who the empty words in his head were trying to convince. As quick as the figure had come, he was gone, like a puff of smoke in polluted air.

Ed breathed a sigh of relief as he broke away from the pulsing crowd, shaking away his heavy thoughts. He had a plan, and all was going accordingly, that was the only thing of importance. The only thing he could afford to think about.

The ticket collector looked bored, thin lips pressed into a solemn line, brown eyes lazily flicking to Ed’s, gesturing for him to approach. He was young and scruffy looking, Ed guessed he was in his early twenties. Beer belly, sunken eyes, iron deficiency if his pale skin and shortness of breath was anything to go by. Probably a student. Fascinating, really, how easy it was to read a person if you knew what signs to look for.

Ed had approached, and smiled widely at the other man, taking note of his name badge. Gale. Derived from Irish, Gaelic, and old English, meaning cheerful and happy. He snorted.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Gale”

Gale raised an eyebrow and sighed. His expression didn’t shift.

“Ticket?”

“Agreement, even in disagreement. Opposite to no, but still knowing. What am I?”

Gale was unimpressed. Ed waited eagerly for a response, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

The ticket collector pinched the bridge of his nose, “Look, man, give me your ticket if you’ve got it, and if you don’t, then walk anyways. I literally can’t give less of a shit.”

Ed’s expression fell, but he wasn’t surprised. He couldn’t remember the last time someone tried to solve one of his riddles. It was no matter, he thought as he awkwardly rummaged through his coat pockets, there would always be someone else to try with, and it wasn’t as though he was going to run out of puzzles any time soon.

“Aha!” His fingers wrapped around the loose piece of paper, he presented it with a flourish, “Knew it was in there somewhere.” He paused for a moment, as Gale idly stamped his ticket and passed it back to him, his eyes already flicking over to the next person in line. Before he could leave, Ed blurted, “The answer was yes. To the riddle, that is. Just in case you wanted to solve it.”

The look Gale gave him was nothing short of incredulous, though he recovered quickly, and gave an uncomfortable thumbs up. Ed wondered if it was too much to ask the Earth to swallow him whole.

“Yeah man, that’s, um…that’s pretty cool. Have a good day.” He spun on his heels and walked away, not looking back as Gale’s words were swallowed by the indistinct chatter of the station. An embarrassed flush spread across his face, what a terrific start to life in Gotham. One interaction, _one interaction_ , and he'd already made an idiot of himself. _Really,_ he’d outdone himself this time.

Before Ed could fully debate the pros and cons of turning around and throwing himself in front of the next train, his thoughts staggered to an abrupt halt. A breath escaped his open lips as he slowly descended down the station's steps, wide eyes greedily absorbing Gotham’s grey skyline and the chaos of it's surrounding streets.  


A Lamborghini seared passed homeless camps, a police officer in full uniform hunched by an alley with another ragged man, deft hands exchanging Benjamin Franklin for bagged, white powder. Shouting and murmuring, the sounds of the swarms of people pushing to and fro, swept over the roars of cars speeding by in the mid day rush. Smoke and dirt and grime soiled over his new shoes, polish lost to the clear rainwater. Disgust and intrigue coiled in Ed's chest alongside air heavy with the smell of greasy, street food. A hundred, thousand contradictions flashed beside the glowing, neon lights, and impossibility was tangible in the smoke infused air. It tasted like a mystery, of blood and sweat and grime and promise.

_Riddle me this._

The neon-green glow of ‘Enigma Inks’ cut through the night, carving Ed’s cheekbones out of shadow, bathing his pale skin in a sickly hue. With an uncontained, boyish excitement, he pushed his glasses further up his nose and spread his nimble hands against the brick wall. Everything was coming together.

It wasn’t unlike the thrill of cutting open a body for the first time, back in his forensics days, to search for answers between torn sinews and flesh, finding clues buried in still hearts and clotted veins. The human body was an enigma, and the city a collection of such, hiding blood and death behind the faux simplicity of everyday life. When he’d stepped out of the station, and into the bustle of the city for the first time those weeks ago, he’d realised the mysteries of Gotham, like those of a body, were far too vast for him to take on at once.

He’d have to wait, bide his time, and find each of the jigsaw pieces before he could slot them together. Gotham was perfect. Not in the way Metropolis was flawless, no, Gotham was perfect in its defection. It’s flaws seeped into the streets like an open wound, the lawlessness of its people in tandem to create a masterpiece. If he couldn’t dissect all of Gotham at once, Ed supposed he could start with a smaller mystery; one far closer to home.

_Born from an ending,  
The only path to advance  
Silver lining to failing  
I am…_

Next to Ed, formless, the green figure laughed. It echoed through Ed’s bones, and was carried through the empty streets.

_Answer: A second chance._


	2. A Creative Use for a Concrete Pot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, guess who finally managed to get an update out!

Oswald considered 9am was too early, for most, to kill someone. 

That being said, it hadn’t exactly stopped him before. A bitter, seething fury coiled in the pits of his stomach as he turned away from a particularly unpleasant customer spitting harsh demands at his mother, the sharp heat of bile perforating the back of his throat. His grip on the potted geraniums tightened, white knuckles shone against the earthen clay as he nestled the flowers between a pair of freshly bloomed lobelias. 

Opening hours should’ve been his favourite part of the day. The fleeting moments between the _blood_ and the _grime_ and the _hustle_ of the mob where sunlight cascaded through open, French windows, specks of dust danced in golden streams above an array of a hundred flowers. The twinkling irises of his mother’s eyes, the tumbling sunflowers of her hair and the rose petals of soft Hungarian words spun in time to Billie Holiday’s distant, floating warble. Warm in a cold sunlight. He supposed that if his mother were a saint, which she was, then _Kappelput and Sons; Florals of Budapest_ was her shining, ivory kingdom. 

But of course, Gotham did what Gotham does best, a thought he entertained with no small part love and hate for his city, sending her rats to whatever inches of paradise were tucked between her winding streets and ruins them. The customer’s musky scent of cheap cologne and day-old sweat cut through the fading, perfume cloud. Oswald wanted to smash the closest window, and run glass shards through the man’s fat neck. 

All in due time. 

Wiping his hands on his apron, Oswald steeled his expression and plastered on his best customer service smile. The muscles under his cheekbones ached from the strain, the corner of his lips twitched. Restraint was a bitch.

“I’m sorry sir, but what appears to be the problem? I assure you, I’ll help to the very best of my ability.” 

Oswald despised the voice that stumbled out from between his lips. Quivering with subservience, clinging to the very air it was breathed on, fading into silence as soon as it was sounded. It was a tone he had spent years carefully crafting, not by dealing with the vermin of the florists’ customer base, but rather with the _skillsets_ he’d acquired in his more illicit line of work. Weakness of words hid the strength of ambition simmering beneath the surface in the mob world. He’d found that the meekness of the unassuming was an aphrodisiac to the elite, and God only knows just how much Fish and Falcone enjoyed having their egos stroked. Oswald doubted he’d have survived as long as he had without it. 

Repressing the feelings that boiled and _burned_ within his chest had never come naturally. Even the coldest of his stone expressions eventually cracked under the weight of blood bubbling beneath his skin. Oswald knew he _felt_ things far stronger than the average person, likewise, he’d long since accepted that it would be his greatest weakness. Or perhaps, in these fleeting moments, his greatest strength. 

Similar to the likes of Fish, of Falcone, the customer preened at the attention as he turned away from his mother. Oswald wanted to puke.  
He glanced at his mother, whose shoulders were tense, her gaze downcast. The defiant tears brimming in her eyes locked to her hands where she pointedly fiddled with the store’s succulent collection – running her fingers over its leaves in a soothing motion. 

He was going to pay, _dearly._

“Ah! A bright, young fella’s just what I’m after,” Oswald’s eyes narrowed as the customer gripped his shoulder, he could feel the sweat of his hands through his paisley suit. Unperturbed, the man continued, picking up a discarded bunch of red roses and leading him away from the counter, “Man to man, you’ll get where I’m coming from.”

Oswald ground his teeth behind a smile, forcing a nod and following the other’s lead, subtly guiding their walk towards the back of the shop.  
“The old bitch your boss?” They passed the rose display, their heavy sweetness drowned in the man’s morning breath as he chuckled, and tightened his grip on Oswald’s shoulder, “Trust me lad, I know the sort. One second the sweet old lady, the next… well, their time to play young, bold thing ended a few decades ago, don’t you-” 

“Sorry _sir_ , but what exactly do you want my help with?” He spat, cutting the customer off, red blurring the sides of his vision. How _dare_ this pathetic excuse of a man use his two, measly braincells to entertain such vile thoughts of his mother. He’d rip him to pieces and use his vitals as compost, no, even his geraniums deserved higher class meat than this pig wrapped in oversized slacks! His eyes flashed to the employees only sign on the back door, innocent shadows flickering under fairy lights and poison ivy. The fury quelled, the tectonic plates beneath his façade shifted back into place, he was Oswald Cobblepot, five minutes was nothing, he could control himself. Five minutes, then the pig would get _exactly_ what he deserves. A sickly smile sunk back into place. 

Momentarily, the man looked taken aback by the interruption, before his expression hardened and he removed his hand from Oswald’s shoulder. A thought appeared to cross his lips, but he retracted it with an indignant huff, and used his free hand to wipe away the blonde hair stuck to his forehead. 

“Got these for the Missus just the other day, our anniversary, you see,” He held up the bouquet of roses, “but she didn’t want them. Cliché, she said, doesn’t go with the walls, she said, you know, women’s crap. I wanted to trade these in, get her something she wouldn’t bitch about. Look!” His eyes widened as he ran his fingers over the rose petals and stem, “They’re as good as the day I bought them! Leaves all there, flowers the same, no holes, no wiltering, no nothing!”

Oswald wrinkled his nose as he took the bouquet from the man’s grasp. _This_ was what the fuss was about, a fucking no returns policy. Just what he needed this morning, a reminder of how much he despised the general population. 

With a huff, the customer continued, holding up his hands in surrender, “Sure, I probably shouldn’t have lost my cool at your boss, but I just don’t get why you can’t sell it to the next sorry sucker who tries to do something nice.”

“Of course, sir, I _completely_ understand your plight.” They reached the back of the shop. Oswald gripped the metal doorknob, cool beneath his boiling skin, his teeth flashing in a smile, “How do you think she’ll feel about chrysanthemums?”

As oblivious as expected, the man barked out a laugh, and clapped him on the back. Oswald gritted his teeth. 

What a fucking idiot. What kind of employee takes a customer to the back? The man was clearly blinded by his arrogance, and the satisfaction of getting ‘special treatment’. On his way out, Oswald shut the window blinds.

He stepped outside and shivered as the frozen air nipped his skin, gravel crunching beneath his shoes. Wisps of melted snow glittered in the early morning light from creases between grey cement, he scrunched his nose as he sidestepped piles of husks, dead flowers and other junk. 

Hmph. He hadn’t realised the state of disrepair the back had gotten to. Maybe he could get one of Maroni’s more gullible men to clean it, after all, few would want to get on the bad side of their bosses’ new golden goose. 

In the corner of the small, outside area was a rundown storage unit, certainly nothing to look at, but it got the job done. Oswald’s eyes fell on a white, concrete pot leaning against the unit’s door. He smirked. 

It was a shame that pretty design was going to waste. 

Oswald unlocked and opened the door, standing aside and gesturing to the shelves of similar bouquet’s and potted arrangements, “Take whichever one you want, sir,” He could barely hide the glee in his voice as the customer stepped inside unquestioningly, “you know what they say, the world’s your oyster.”

Oswald followed the customer into the unit, his fingers wrapped around the edges of the pot. Concrete dust itched underneath his fingernails, heart pounding against his ribcage as he observed the man scrutinizing the bouquets and the flowers, a trickle of sunlight peering through the one, barred window.

This was his favourite part. 

He slammed the door shut. 

“What the _fu_ -” 

The man’s head crunched as it came into contact with concrete. His stomach twisted with sickening adrenaline. Oswald felt his chest constricting as the echo of breaking bones filled the silence of the unit, hands shaking as he slammed the pot against flesh again and again. The façade fell apart, he was The Penguin. The fury of the moment was a black, impenetrable cloud that devoured the whole world, save for where red stained white and hushed groans fell on the indifferent stares of a hundred shelved flowers. 

“How _dare_ you speak to her like that you _cretin_ ,” The venom in his hiss sliced through the heavy, metallic scent of blood and roses, “you’re lucky I didn’t boil you alive and feed your filthy innards to the dogs!”

He only wished he could do it all again. Only if he could make the man cry, make him beg for his life, wrap his fingers round his neck or to thrust a knife between hot, pulsing organs, and shove that damn bouquet between the pig’s bones. 

The customer’s final whimpers subsided. The air, once again, grew cold and thick with silence. Oswald threw the pot aside where it clattered in the corner of the room, and pressed gloved fingers to the man’s wrists, shaking as the anger ebbed away and weak pulse faded to nothing. 

Alone, and suddenly exhausted, he sat with the corpse in the old unit and grinned, wiping his bloodied gloves against his similarly stained apron. 

His gaze flickered to the bloody corpse, and a poisonous laugh bubbled to his lips. He’d spent his childhood watching men like that harass his mother, and his adolescence on the receiving end of such treatment, to now be standing over them, lifeless, as the consequences to their actions morphed into murder was addictive. Yes, Ms Mooney this, No Ms Mooney that. How close should I stand? I’m begging for your forgiveness. I’ll strive to do better, strive to be better. 

Oswald stood up, and stepped on the dead man’s hand, relishing the crackle and pop of his bones beneath the sole of his shoe. Well, now he was better. The best. Soon, he’d be the rightful King of Gotham, he just needed to play his hand right. Never again would he be somebody’s umbrella boy, and no one would hurt his mother unpunished. 

He didn’t even know the corpses’ name. It was euphoric. 

However, he couldn’t rest on his laurels for too long. That may be Falcone’s fault, but he’d be damned before he’d make it his too. There was a body to be disposed of. 

Oswald spent the next few minutes peering through ceramic pots and pulling aside sealed boxes of seeds and tea leaves, searching for something to cover the corpse. Perhaps he had been a little rash…oh well, what was done was done. The bastard had it coming, now he was dead, and that was all that mattered.  
Aha! Tucked in between a couple bags of compost, he pulled out a tattered, green garden sheet. It wasn’t perfect, he sneered as he ran his fingers through the holes and muck, but it would catch most of the blood and have to do. It took surprisingly little effort to roll the body to its side and onto the sheet, Oswald supposed the practice had come in handy. The body squelched as he wrapped it up, and dragged it to the front of the unit. 

Once he peaked his head outside the door, ensuring the blinds of the shop windows were closed, he pulled the garden sheet across the outside area, and into the alley right next to the _Kappelput and Sons_ , resting the customer against the dumpster while he caught his breath. A hush fell across the road at the end of the alley, relatively quiet considering it was mid-morning and at the edge of the Narrows. Few people paced through the grey streets, and the ones that did kept their eyes wisely averted. Oswald felt a hint of satisfaction, he was supposedly one of Maroni’s horde and, well, it wasn’t like anyone here had any particular fancy towards the GCPD. No one would bother investigating someone taking out their trash in this part of town, no matter how suspiciously body-shaped such garbage appeared to be.

No, Oswald was confident he wouldn’t be receiving impromptu visits from Gordon anytime soon. He promptly ignored the swell of disappointment that came along with that particular thought. 

But what about the newcomers? The one variable that remained unaccounted for. Or rather, a specific newcomer in particular. 

_Enigma Inks_ sat directly across from _Kappelput and Sons_ , and ever since its opening day a few months ago, Oswald couldn’t shake the feeling that something about that place was _off_. He didn’t trust its proprietor as far as he could make Gabe throw him. The man was all awkward smiles, and looks that lingered for far too long, that sparkled as though he always knew more than he ever let on. He squinted into the sunlight across the street, and sighed when he failed to spot that insufferable stringbean milling about his shop. Where the hell was he? 

The idiots he’d paid to trail him had been embarrassingly unsuccessful, what little information they’d come crawling back with only offered far more questions than answers. Professionals, coming up empty handed time and time again. Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised the men who followed Maroni were fools. 

Nygma, a tattoo artist with no discernible inch of his own skin inked, a nobody, yet able to evade mob-standard stalkers? He appeared to him a series of contradictions after contradiction, a time bomb whose faint ticking was driving him mad. 

What sort of a name was Edward Nygma anyways? In all of his time playing Gotham’s dirty little games, he’d never encountered an alias so obvious, so ridiculous! Enigma. Unbelievable. Worse yet, he could find no traces of the man’s actual identity, and refused to accept it was a coincidence that someone so obviously suspicious would set up shop right by his mother’s business at the exact moment he was poised to strike. 

Coincidences don’t happen in places like Gotham. At best, he suspected it could be a money laundering scheme. At worst, and more likely, a ploy by one of the many on his growing list of enemies. He just needed to discover which puppet master was pulling these particular strings. He had yet to meet the man in question, but he wanted to come prepared. Armed with an arsenal of potential blackmail, a certain way to cover his tracks should such an encounter not go according to plan.

Using the loose piece of string he kept in his pockets for…situations such as this one, Oswald tied an asphodel flower to the corpse’s breast pocket. Its pale petals stained red, and coiled inwards with the weight of blood. He dropped his bloodied gloves and apron over the corpse and slammed the dumpster lid shut. When the time was more opportune, he’d get rid of it properly. A chill travelled down his spine at the thought of his mother’s heartbreak if she caught him dragging a body around. Losing the one person who cared if he dropped off the face of the earth? No, it couldn’t be risked. 

She was waiting for him when he stepped back into the store, wearing a tired smile.  
“You dealt with that nasty man, no?” 

“Replacement chrysanthemums were more than enough to send him scampering home.” The lie slipped effortlessly through his teeth. His mouth curved into a soft smile as she tutted and clasped both his hands in her own, shaking her head. For a second it seemed as if her expression faltered, so quick that he brushed it off as a trick of the light. 

“Oh, my poor, poor boy. How sweet you are. That is not our rules, we should’ve swept him out with the dust and rats. You are too kind with them.”  
He placed a gentle hand over her own and smiled. He noticed a speck of blood on his shoe, and subtly adjusted so it was hidden from her sight.  
“I’ll be harsher next time, promise.”

She pressed a kiss to his forehead. His heart ached; he didn’t enjoy lying to her, but they were necessary when wrapped over such a hideous truth. One day he’d make up for all these years of deceit, when he’s King. He’ll buy the whole block, and build an orchard from its bloody asphalt and the cracks between its misshapen bricks. No one would ever hurt them again, and anyone who dared to try would bow before him. The very thought made him giddy. 

Speaking of which, Oswald glanced at the clock on the wall and swore under his breath. Maroni would be expecting him in less than an hour, he guessed he only had fifteen more minutes to spend in shop. Briefly, he toyed with the idea of staying a little longer, arriving late and blaming Gotham’s notoriously terrible public transport. But no, the mob boss’ loyalty was yet to be earned fully, and loyalty requires dedication. Time-management. Perfection. It takes a steady hand to send the house of cards toppling down. 

Oswald was snapped out of his thoughts by his mother’s light tutting as she threw a new apron over his paisley suit, “Always away with the faeries, ever since you were a teeny, tiny little boy.” Gertrud glided across the room, a far-away look in her eyes as she plucked a pair of discoloured lilies from a corner shelf, bathed in the shadow of a far larger, potted tree. She ran her fingers along its drooping petals, and tucked a blonde hair dusted with grey behind her ear, “These flowers, Oswald, they’re still beautiful. Not perfect, no, we have to put them with the rest of the bargain flowers now because they don’t like what makes them different. You know this?”

It was a mantra he’d heard from her before, that beauty was difference and difference was always beautiful. Often, he’d think fondly to childhood, when his mother would gather the damaged plants they couldn’t sell under her arms, the fabric of her skirt clasped in his little hands as they’d meander to the local park. Once they’d found a clearing that she deemed acceptable, she’d help him part the earth and bury the roots beneath the soil. Years later, he still remembered how long it took to scrub the dirt from underneath his fingernails, and the youthful sense of accomplishment as sunlight bounced of impaired petals beneath the beam of his mother’s proud smile. 

Life was simpler back then, he knew, but Gotham was a cruel mistress. The one thing that never changed was her belief in the unique, the conviction she spoke with when she said to him that all things are brave and beautiful, and can flourish even in a world that doesn’t understand them. 

This time, however, something was clearly wrong.

He nodded, confused, trying to keep his expression calm despite the pool of uncertainty settling in his guts. “I know, mum. I know.”

She paused, and seemed comforted by his agreement. An unspoken question hung in the air, Oswald tried to grasp it, he opened his mouth to inquire further --  
“I’ll love you no matter what, but you must be honest with me. Always, _always_ , you must be honest with your mother.” There was a firmness to her tone that was alien to him. With her free hand she gripped his upper arm, and Oswald was unable to hide his shock. 

Did she know? Her teary eyes searched his face for an answer to a question he couldn’t hear. Could this be about the customer, or Fish, or Maroni, his life had become such a tangle of lies he struggled to pull them apart and analyse them separately. Now was not the time, he’d have to work that out later. If that meant removing a few people of their fingernail privileges, well, that was his business. Swallowing the nervous lump in his throat, he regained his composure, and again placed his hand over hers and noted how it trembled beneath his grasp. 

“Mum, what’s this about? I-I can assure you; I’ve never told you anything but the absolute truth…” He let out a nervous, stilted laugh, “Is this _still_ about painted ladies? Because I swear-”

Stiffly, Gertrud shook her head, and pulled away. Her eyes darted to the floor. “I trust you. Do not take that lightly, a mother’s trust is golden.” 

She placed the damaged lilies in his hands. Baffled, and still trying to process the encounter, he again was interrupted. “Now go. Put these with the others.” 

Still shell-shocked, he wordlessly obliged. A hundred separate scenario’s raced through his mind, he tried to consider them all without his blood reaching boiling point. She couldn’t have seen the…incident with the customer, no, there was no denying her flair for the dramatics, if she’d seen him kill there’d be hell to pay. Had some cretin spoken to her? Threatened her? 

As Oswald stepped out of the store, he blinked and stifled back a groan. Really, the morning had the audacity to go from bad to so much _worse_. 

Nygma leant against the whitewashed brick walls of _Kappelput and Sons_ , his shoulders tense in his green cardigan and hands fiddling by his side. His eyes lightened up when he noticed the florist. 

“Was there _something_ I could help you with?” Oswald said, gritting his teeth. After the morning he’d had, he was in no mood to put up his customer service façade again. Frankly, he would consider it a success if he could get this conversation done without dragging yet another body to the nearest gutter. 

“I thought thirteen weeks was a long time to go without meeting your neighbours. So, I guess it’s nice to meet you, _neighbour_ ” He flinched as Edward thrust his hand out, “Nygma, Ed Nygma.” 

Biting back an exasperated sigh, he glared out the outstretched hand until it fell back at Nygma’s side. 

“Listen, _friend_ , I’m sure you mean well but you’ve no idea the kind of morning I’ve had.” In short, he refused to put up with anyone else’s crap. Oswald sidestepped the other man to reach the bargain box, a small, wooden stall in front of the shop window, littered with discoloured, damaged and wilted flowers, all half price. It was the only produce they could afford to display in front of the store, unprotected by glass windows from the thieving murk that was Gotham’s grey streets. 

Oswald looked at his reflection in the shop window with a dead eyed stare, his gaze flickered to the tattoo artist behind his shoulder. He let out a soft groan when he saw nothing but a barely contained eagerness. 

It wasn’t enough to deter him. 

“Lillium candidum. A fascinating species if I do say so myself, may I-” Ed gestured to the plant. Before Oswald could reply, he stepped forward and carefully took the petals between his fingers. He didn’t bother stifling an eye roll, it was beginning to seem like he’d have to place a well-manoeuvred knife between Nygma’s ribs to get across that he wanted to be left alone. 

“If you were to let me finish, I was going to say you _could not._ ” 

“Sorry.” Ed didn’t step away or, to Oswald’s ever mounting frustration, sound particularly guilty. “This one has a genetic default though, doesn’t it? Brilliant! I had no idea abnormalities in its genome could’ve such a profound impact on its color. This decreases it’s value by what…approximately sixty percent?”

“That doesn’t make it any less beautiful than the rest” He snapped, tugging the plant away. The petals caught between fingers were pulled from the bud, and floated to the dirty, cobblestone ground. Ed swallowed and met his gaze. 

“I never said it didn’t.” 

There was silence for a moment, as Oswald realized just how close Edward was standing to him. A light, sharp scent of citrus clung to the woolen fabric of his cardigan, trickling through Gotham’s usual cloud of smoke and gas. Up close he noticed the strength of his jawline and cheekbones, the peculiar shape of his domed forehead and thin nose. The way he moved was akin to a robot; clinical, and calculated in every breath, there was not a hair out of place or a speck of dirt on his clothes. Impressive really, considering the state of the city. Nygma looked as odd as he acted. Though, he admitted that was rather like the pot calling the kettle black. Something inside him that Oswald refused to acknowledge fluttered at the intelligent sparkle behind his glasses, intrigued by the feverish glint of his pupils.

 _Absolutely not._

Oswald shook his head, as if to purge such a troublesome line of thoughts from his mind. 

“Well, isn’t that just _wonderful?_ ” He took a firm step back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Now that you’ve finished pointing out the faults and pricing of my flowers, perhaps you could be so polite as to fill me in on what exactly you want.” 

Nygma paused for a moment, before nodding slowly.

“Okay, I’ll admit, an introduction wasn’t a necessary measure for me to take after all, with all due respect, I know exactly who you are, Mr Kappelput.” 

That, he loathed to admit, caught him off guard. Oswald recovered from the initial shock quickly and snorted, his lips curling into a sneer. “If you did, _Mr Nygma,_ I doubt you’d be talking to me quite like this.”

Ed at least had the decency then to look apologetic. He cleared his throat, and his smile faltered but still there was a light in his eye that made Oswald squirm. He felt like the latest specimen caught under a microscope, pulled apart at the sinews beneath inquisitive, brown eyes. Smaller than he was, weaker than he’d shown himself to be. Those days of being ruled by inferiority were gone, he knew his name and soon all of Gotham would too, no one would make him feel like the uncertain thing he’d purged all those years ago and live to tell the tale. 

Including this bastard.

He felt a sliver of satisfaction as he watched Edward scramble for his next words. “On the contrary, you see, you’re fascinating and your mind is, to be frank, brilliant. I’ve seen and heard so much about you, it’s all very exhilarating.” He said with an excited clap, his smile, manic, crawling back into place. Oswald clenched his jaw. “In addition to all of, well, that, I believe I have something that could be very useful to you.”

It took all of his self-control not to laugh. What did _Nygma,_ of all people, think he could possibly offer him? Sure, the man appeared to be sneaky, able to avoid his investigators, but he had no connections, no influence, no money, and likely, no information. Gotham would eat him alive given half the chance. If this was a bluff, he struggled to tell if he was excessively brave or stupid. 

Still, there was something in the other man’s expression that made Oswald uneasy. It was a look he’d so often seen flashed in a mirror, the spark of leaving your foes in the dark and of concealing a weighty hand close to your chest. To be on the receiving end of such a glance made him feel as though he were still clutching onto the handle of an umbrella. 

Never the less, the broad daylight and passing traffic gave Oswald little option but to humor him. He stepped forward, so close he could feel the warmth radiating from his body. He tilted his head up, hardened his gaze and lowered his voice to a dangerous hum, “At best, you’re nothing, and at worst a liability. So what, pray tell, could do you possibly have to offer me?”

“How about I counter your question with a query of my own?” Once again, to Oswald’s dismay, he grinned, “How do you feel about riddles?”

He didn’t get the chance to answer as Ed continued, 

“I don’t have arms but I carry a story,  
to spill me brings a tale most gory,  
Symbol of kin, the king’s great strife  
I’ll be with you till the end of life.

What am I?”

A stunned silence settled over Oswald, who found himself taken aback and only able furrow his brows in confusion. Vaguely, he noted his reaction only seemed to urge Ed on.

“When you’ve worked it out, meet me at Enigma Inks. As close to eight pm as you can.”

When he was met with no reply, he continued. 

“Did you know there are at least 150 documented ways to say goodbye in the English language? Isn’t that just neat.” He grinned, “until we meet again, Mr Kappelput.”

Without another word, Ed gave him a final, wide smile before leaving Oswald in the smoke of passing cars, still clutching uselessly to his lilies, and grappling with what the _fuck_ had just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed x  
> If you did, be sure to leave a kudos or comment! They always brighten my day :D
> 
> Follow my [ tumblr ](https://boudii-space.tumblr.com/) if you want updates for this and other works, as well as maybe some future headcannons/art!

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooooo, here we have it! Prologue of the first fic on this account!
> 
> I've got to admit, I'm not very confident in this prologue, but I figured if I just sat around, twiddling my thumbs and making edits, I'd never get it out there. The actual chapters will be longer than this. Hope you've enjoyed my self-indulgent fic so far! Next chapter we'll see some Oswald, don't you worry. 
> 
> Follow my [ tumblr ](https://boudii-space.tumblr.com/) if you want updates for this and other works, as well as maybe some future headcannons/art. If you enjoyed, please leave a kudos or comment, they really do brighten my day and motivate me to get my head out of my ass!


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